


stars and boulevards

by perennial



Category: Peter Pan & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Room With a View backwards if you squint, Edwardian era, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hook in the real world, and getting on Wendy's last. nerve., back from the grave, but not until plenty of time has been spent waltzing around London, eventual return to Neverland, post-novel, unauthorized sequel, unwelcome houseguest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 12:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2388974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perennial/pseuds/perennial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hook, in an attempt to locate Peter Pan, moves in with the Darlings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Course It Was a Friday

**Author's Note:**

> Updates will be slow but steady. I will not abandon this.

The library was the most pleasant room in the Darling house. Papered in slate-blue, its tall white-paned windows looked out over the street and at the full trees in the rear garden. A set of French doors opened to the back, where the typical English country garden had been overthrown in favor of the daughter of the house’s love of jungle-like foliage and sunshine.

This door stood open now, letting in all the light and sound of summer. A flirty breeze stirred the huge camellia bush and carried the scent through the room. Birdsong trilled from a bush somewhere near. Dappled sun and shadows fell through the windows and doorway and patted the heads of the two young men within, whose heads were bent studiously over their books.

Their thoughts were strictly contained to the cerebral: facts, dates, statistics. To be sure, were their sister present she would have called their attention (blinking, unfocused) to the beauty of the scene—which, frankly, would have left them cold, as does any familiar scene one sees often enough to lose appreciation for. What mattered at present was not the present but tomorrow’s call to account by way of an examination (John) and a composition (Michael).

As it was, they were the only ones at home. Liza was gone to market, Sarah to the draper’s, and it was Eloise’s day off. Their parents and sister were out, invited to tea by the Reverend Dougal and his visiting sister, from which the sons of the house had been granted blessed absence.

Their movements were contained to soft sounds: the turn of a page, the scratch of a pencil. The younger inquired of his brother after the spelling of a word. They were arguing over the answer when the birdsong at the window fell silent. Neither noticed.

Michael, studying the letters written before him with distrust, settled back into his seat and rearranged his papers. He propped his elbows on the desk and rested his head between his fists to read over what was penned thus far. A strange shadow fell across the page—a curved thing that had no place in the natural world, that distinctly resembled—

They sprang from their seats. John’s book fell unheeded to the floor with a thud.

The man before them was dead—should have been dead—could not possibly be alive. They had passed ten years in the happy knowledge that never again would this particular threat cross their path.

Then he spoke, and yes, he was real, quite real.

“Redhanded Jack, studying Law. What an appalling deterioration.”

He was just as they remembered. Memories crowded into their heads, clear as though lived but yesterday: countless hunts across the island, chance encounters that concluded in blood, poisoned cakes and other games, the last bloodbath with the Piccaninny braves and the pirates, the capture outside their hideout, the final fatal plunge into gaping reptilian jaws that sank with a flash of yellow teeth beneath the frothing water. And always in the midst of the melee was a tall figure in velvet red, black curls flying and iron claw swinging. He looked as though he had walked straight out of these self-same memories and into their Gardiner Row library.

Captain Jas. Hook fixed the brothers with the familiar beautiful cold blue of his eyes.

“Where is your sister?”


	2. Ten O'Clock By the Crocodile

Listen! The great old clocktower is faithfully tolling out the hour. Much more than a timepiece is that tower; it is a steady companion, an untroubled overseer, a familiar voice in the darkness sending its populace home to their warm hearths and beds.

Obedient to the clock’s command, the front door of No. 14 opens to admit its truant inhabitants, finally returned home. Enter Mr. and Mrs. George Darling (hardly changed since we last saw them) and a young woman with copper-brown curls pinned up around her face. If we look closely we will see that her eyes are an exact match to those of the two young men observed earlier in the library. Right now she is laughing at a remark from her father. It is the laugh of a woman who loves her companions, who loves her life. Let us not interrupt this happy band with the truth just yet—this is the last night their hearts will be so light for a very long time.

(It is worth mentioning that Mr. Darling still has a city position, but he has climbed a little: the family can now keep a cook, two grown maids, and “any number of ridiculous-looking plants in that blasted garden.”)

The Darlings had rewarded their good manners at the Reverend Dougal’s by going shopping and out to supper. At the restaurant they had encountered a friend of Mrs. Darling’s and been invited over for coffee and cards. A delightful cap to the day this had proved to be, as two other well-known families were also present, and all had indulged the late evening with the excuse that the morrow was a Saturday.

Shrugging off coats and wraps into the arms of the waiting Liza, the trio slowly reacclimated themselves to the house, looking around the entrance hall as though they might discover it held something of particular interest, if only they could locate it. Mrs. Darling asked Liza to have the evening cocoa sent up early; they planned to retire soon (Mr. Darling swore he could not sleep without cocoa, but he had secretly cultivated the habit chiefly for his wife's benefit. She had a fondness for the drink but would only indulge so as not to waste any when he could not finish his own).

The daughter of the house came back through the library doors. “They aren’t there.”

Mr. Darling called up the stairwell. “John? Michael?”

“They must have gone out.”

“I’ll ask Sarah.”

If Nana had been there what had already transpired and what followed would never have occurred; but Nana was enjoying a much deserved rest beneath the shadiest palm in the garden, and this is what happened as a result.

Leaving her parents to their devices, the Darling daughter yawned herself up the stairs to her bedroom. Merry as she had been but a minute before, the day she had so deftly dodged was catching up with her, and fatigue turned her bones into bars of lead. She could imagine nothing more heavenly than to shed her corset and sink into the soft white sheets of her bed.—This speaks for the majority of her thoughts; another corner of her mind was crafting plans for modifications to the rear garden for her to review in the morning, and a sliver was wishing it was breakfast-time. She went into her room and shut the door. All was dark, the blackness intensified by her sudden departure from the light in the outer hall. The curtains had not been drawn and the night outside was a block of dark blue against the black.

Behind her, the bolt turned in the door. A man’s unknown voice said, “Hello, Wendy.”

A strangled cry jerked out of her throat. She whirled around, not knowing whether she ought to fight or flee but ready for either, or both. Adrenaline swept her fatigue aside.

Out of the darkness came a familiar rasp and hiss, and a moment later she was blinking into the bright flame of a candle. He stepped forward so that she might better see him—or, more likely, that he might better see her—and with this move the distinct features of his face came into view. She froze.

Wendy’s scream had been automatic, the natural response to an unauthorized presence in her bedroom. As she recognized the man who stood there in the darkness her eyes grew wide but she stayed silent.

The small light caught all the awful contours of his face and plunged the hollows into shadow. His pale irises were turned nearly white. He hardly looked human—it was as though he had donned an awful mask. She could not remember the last time she had been so perfectly paralyzed by fear; she felt she had stepped into a nightmare.

She said hoarsely, “Are you a ghost?”

He set the candle on the table at the head of her bed. His hand now free, he picked up one of hers. It trembled slightly in his hold. Turning it palm-up with a gentleness that belied the black heart beating within his chest, he lifted his other arm, and all she registered was the white flash of candlelight reflecting off silver and into her eyes—then, a sharp, needle-like pain as his hook pierced the soft pad of the tip of her index finger.

“Does that feel like the touch of a ghost?”

She looked at the dark red bead of blood welling on her fingertip. _Sleeping Beauty pricked her finger_ , she thought irrelevantly. _Sleeping Beauty had one hundred years of nightmares_. She closed her eyes briefly. “Where are my brothers?”

Quick steps in the hall outside caused both their heads to turn toward the closed door. The handle rattled; the lock held. Her mother’s alarmed voice reached their ears, muffled but unhindered by the barrier.

“Wendy? Are you well?”

“Yes, Mother,” replied the daughter levelly, eyes locked on the candle-lit outlines of her visitor. “I thought I saw a rat.”

“Why is your door locked, my love?”

The iron hook was cold against her neck. The deadly tip pressed into the flesh just below her jaw. Hook put his mouth close to her ear. “Breathe one word and I shall kill her—just so.”

He dispatched of the flame with his thumb and forefinger and sank into the shadows. Wendy opened the door.

“I was about to change into my nightdress. Everything is fine.”

Mrs. Darling peered past her shoulder into the unexpected darkness. “Why don’t you have a lamp lit?”

“Window’s open. Don’t want to attract insects.”

Evidently finding these answers acceptable, Mrs. Darling took her leave. The two within the room listened to the sound of her receding footsteps; when they faded, Wendy turned back to her visitor and found him at her elbow. She started in surprise but recovered herself quickly; she was quite pale, and very angry. If she but knew how much angrier she would grow before the evening concluded!

He shut the door and relocked it. She hissed, “Where are my brothers?”

“Is that all your family can think of, each other? How nice to see you again, Wendy. It is always gratifying to find that a pretty child has become a lovely woman.”

“My brothers,” she repeated. “What have you done with them?”

“Oh, they were very brave and defiant,” he said carelessly. “Everything one might expect from brothers of yours. You've raised them well.”

“What do you want with them?”

“ _They_ are hardly my prize.”

“What do you want, then?”

“What I always want.”

It was a moment coming; then she said, “Peter.”

He smiled; it resembled a grimace.

She frowned. “Why have you come to us? Peter is not here. John and Michael could have told you so.”

“I’ve no patience for lies tonight, Wendy. I know Pan is in this city; I followed him here. Everyone knows you are the first place he goes when he returns to this world, to hear your wretched stories. Where is he?”

She glared at him. “What do you want with Peter?”

“To kill him. What else?”

Such a statement ought to have chilled her blood, but she dismissed it; it was only what she had expected him to say, and she was of the opinion that if Hook had still not managed to deliver the fatal blow after so many years of conflict it was unlikely that he ever should.

She shook her head. “I haven’t seen him in years and years.”

“Oh! somehow I have trouble believing that.”

“It is the truth. Ask the lost boys.”

“An exemplary suggestion. Take me to them.”

She would have done so in a moment, unheedful of the late hour or thought for her reputation, but remembered: “They’ve left town.” The trains were not running so far north at that time of night and the telegraph office was closed. She began to feel ill. “For the last time, where are John and Michael?”

“Neverland.”

“Do you expect me to believe you came here, kidnapped them, journeyed all the way back to Neverland to deposit them, and returned again—simply to interrogate me about the whereabouts of Peter Pan?”

He smirked and acquiesced. “The closest thing to Neverland in this world, then.”

He watched her work it out. “Your ship?” Fear flooded her face. “What are you doing to them there?”

“They are in one piece, I assure you… for the present. Tell me where he is and they shall be returned to you. Continue to lie, and you shall never see them again.”

“You could kill us all,” she shot back, “and still would never catch even a glimpse of your precious prize, for he no longer visits this house.”

“Time will tell. I am a very patient man. If Pan has not yet come to you, I shall wait here for him.”

There was a curl to his mouth that did not bode well. She watched him with rising trepidation.

“Until he appears, I shall remain by your side at all times. At _all_ times, Wendy.” He looked around the room meaningfully.

Such an announcement was hardly worth attending to; it was too impossible. She would not listen to it. His eyes, however, told a different story.

“You cannot.” She tried to suppress her rising panic. “You simply _can’t_.”

“And yet, I will do so.”

“Aside from the absolute impropriety—”

“Which hardly concerns me.”

“What will the servants think! Word will spread. My reputation will be ruined.” Her heretofore forgotten reputation heard this with relief.

“The facts are these, Wendy: Pan always visited you at night.”

“Peter is not coming here. He isn’t! You _must_ believe me!”

“I believe you would say anything at all to protect him.”

She decided he must not remember too clearly how society frowned upon such things as he tended to champion, such as cold-blooded murder and the wearing of coats nearly three centuries out of fashion. “An unmarried woman cannot be alone with a man without losing her good name,” she explained. “Not in public, let alone the privacy of her home!”

Her words had not given rise to a flicker of change in his expression. “Make it work,” he told her.

She huffed a bit, and cursed society, and finally stated: “I refuse.”

“Very well,” said he equably. He folded his arms and leaned back against the wardrobe door. Hook had conducted variations of this conversation more times than he could recall. “Then you shall never see your brothers again.”

Wendy swallowed.

“How can I know you’ll keep your word?”

“You shall have to trust me.”

“I want proof every day that they are well.”

“You shan’t have it,” he replied. He found such requests tiresome. “You seem to be under the impression that the terms of this situation are yours to dictate. Allow me to disillusion you. When you provide me with means of access to Pan, your brothers shall be returned to you. Yes, Wendy, unharmed. If not…” He left her to imagine what would happen if not.

She decided she had had enough. “First thing,” she told him, “the very first thing I shall do is fetch my parents.”

The look he gave her was mocking. “Still a child after all, Wendy? Crying for mother.”

“I am awash with plans, I assure you. First you are going to tell my mother what you have done with her sons. Then we shall see just what any of us will be _making work_.”


	3. The Only Man the Sea-Cook Feared

Mr. and Mrs. Darling stared at the intruder. They were too dumbfounded at finding a sinister stranger in their daughter’s bedroom to immediately grasp her explanation, and she had to tell them twice.

“You remember when John and Michael and I went to Neverland with Peter Pan. Well, this is Captain Hook, who tried to kill us while we were there.”

“And what is he doing _here_?”

“He wants to kill Peter!”

The senior Darlings could not help but empathise.

Wendy’s voice turned hard. “And now, Captain, you may tell them what you’ve done with John and Michael.”

They listened, aghast.

“My boys!” cried Mr. Darling. “Stolen once by that other blackguard, now this one? I won’t stand for it, Mary; I tell you, I won’t!” And he shook his fist in Hook’s face. Mrs. Darling, quite white-faced, said “Don’t provoke him, George” and looked despairingly at Wendy, as though the weight of her gaze could keep her remaining child safe and grounded.

The pirate concluded, “When your daughter reveals the location of Pan, I shall remove myself from the premises.”

“That fiend again!” yowled the master of the house.

Hook’s eyes gleamed. “We are going to get along splendidly,” he told Mr. Darling, who glared at him.

“I shall send for the police!”

“What good do you expect that will do? Perhaps your authorities will believe your story and arrest me. Think you I’ve never seen the inner walls of a brig? I will return here fast as you can say Jolly Roger. But you won’t be so jolly, George, because you will never see your sons again.”

Their raised voices flooded out through the cracks of the closed door. Fortunately the staff were floors below and sound asleep. Wendy knew the men would come to blows, and she knew what the outcome would be, as surely as she knew in which hand the captain’s hook was embedded.

“I will cooperate,” she bawled in his ear, “but you must conduct yourself as a gentleman!”

“I have never behaved otherwise!” he roared, shoving Mr. Darling away.

In the end the family could see no way around it. He had selected the perfect leverage. They must submit.

Mrs. Darling was hopeful, for despite being a pirate, Hook knew how to comport himself: he spoke rather elegantly, in her private opinion, and he seemed to be no stranger to a bathtub. Whatever else he might be, he was no barbarian. Such a man might eventually be appealed to.

Alas for Mrs. Darling! He is even more barbaric than his dogs; he merely maintains a cleaner veneer. Wendy and the boys have told her about Hook, but those were gleeful stories of victory, danger swept past quickly and everything in rose colors (at least, it was when they related their adventures to her; despite his size even Michael had been aware of the need for discretion) so that she has no real comprehension of what sort of devil has entered her home. So we say again—alas! We shall not disillusion her. She needs her hope if she is to endure the weeks ahead.

Now committed, the family reluctantly settled itself in to play its part.

“What shall we call you? We cannot very well introduce you to our acquaintance as Hook. They would run screaming.” Mr. Darling added that it would reflect poorly on his performance at the office.

“I was christened James.”

“Is that all?” enquired Wendy Moira Angela.

He surrendered the name Jacobus grudgingly. _James_ was deemed acceptable.

Mrs. Darling asked, “Do you have a family name?”

“Oh-ho, _no_ , we shan’t be dredging that up. However, I’m sure your daughter has a garrison of names she is anxious to use on me.”

Wendy kept her mouth closed around any unsavory epithets, but anyone might read them in her face.

“James Cutter,” she offered. “James Cleaver.”

He merely smirked.

Despite whatever Wendy’s spite might desire to christen him, he must be part of a bloodline. He could not show up out of the Never blue. Anywhere you go, you must have a family to look you over and agree that you are whom you claim to be.

“James Vagrant,” she flung at him. “Give us something to work with.”

“ _You_ are the one refusing to play the game, sweetheart.”

Wendy’s father frowned at such familiarity.

Mrs. Darling did not see why anyone need know of his presence at all. “You might stay hidden in her bedroom, and keep no one the wiser, and I shall sleep beside Wendy at night.”

“Very good of you, madam, but I will not risk missing Pan if he chances to find his way to your daughter during daylight hours. Nor will I risk leaving her unsupervised to send word to him in some way.”

This statement caused the trio no small unhappiness. Left unspoken was the threat to Wendy: that if they tried to contact the police after all, or attempted rescue of their sons, she would always be there beside him, his hand and hook ready to enclose her in his clutches. Hardly surprising, this, as he was far more practiced in cunning than they and could anticipate all of their schemes.

Stumped for a surname or for a likely-sounding purpose for his presence among them, they decided to first solve the problem of the boys’ absence, which proved an easy thing: it was decided John and Michael had been suddenly called away to the bleak sickbed of a friend living in— “Dublin. None of our acquaintance go to Ireland if they can help it, and won’t ask to look them up”—and were not expected home soon. The school term was nearly over and if Hook’s visit ran into summer it would do little damage there. The pirate captain agreed to ferry back their final examination compositions, as the scores were awfully important, particularly in John’s case. No, he would not transport letters to and from the family.

That resolved, they found themselves right back at the first problem.

“Hook is a trade partner of George’s,” suggested Mrs. Darling. She did not know what _trade partner_ entailed, exactly, but it sounded quite official and incontestable.

Mr. Darling liked the sound of his having a trade partner. He knew, however, that no man of his salary could hope to pretend to possess a trade partner; nor was this an acceptable solution for the most awkward part of the situation. He shook his head. “An excellent suggestion, my love. Unfortunately, it does not quite make the cut. We must have a reason for his constant presence with Wendy. A long-term reason, preferably. This arrangement could take weeks.”

“Or months.”

“Or _never!_ I have not seen hide or hair of Peter since I turned sixteen!”

“Her doctor,” Mrs. Darling suggested. “She has a lingering malaise.”

Mr. Darling cast a skeptical eye over the lounging figure of the pirate.

Wendy said stubbornly, “I refuse to pretend to be infirm alongside everything else. And even a doctor would not share my bedroom.”

Mr. Darling looked inspired. “Unless she’s demon-possessed.”

“Oh, Father!”

“Oh, George!”

“Well! What other reason can we give for his constant, unquestioned access to her bedroom?”

Mrs. Darling said slowly, “They might—they might claim to be married.”

Wendy bolted up. “Oh, Mother! But Cecil!”

“Cecil will be brought in on it, of course. I expected you to want him to know the truth regardless.”

Mr. Darling said, “But Mary, how can anyone account for such a rapid change of feeling on Wendy’s side? To suddenly break off an attachment and marry a man none of our acquaintance has ever met? It’s insensible. Someone would smell a rat. It might do all the damage to her reputation we are trying to avoid. For heaven’s sake, look at him! They might assume he has…”

“Impregnated her,” Hook supplied.

The father blustered on: “And what happens when he departs? How can we say he has simply abandoned her?”

“We tell everyone he died,” said Wendy darkly. “If we are lucky, it might be the truth this time.”

Mrs. Darling suggested they seek inspiration at the bottoms of chocolate-filled teacups. For lack of a better plan the others agreed, and she went to fetch the tray. Even Hook’s present wickedness was no match for Mrs. Darling’s good breeding, and she graciously offered him a cup as well, albeit a lukewarm one. He declined, his own faultless manners rising to the occasion, which served to deepen the frown between Wendy’s brows. She only held her portion, untasted.

Mr. Darling mused, “Perhaps he is a homeless fellow we have taken in. No one would question that, what with the lost boys.”

“Or a poor student, down on his luck. A friend of John’s,” Mrs. Darling suggested. “When we get the boys back, John can attest to it.”

“That is, if Hook keeps his word.”

“I never lie,” returned Hook, whose memory was sometimes no better than Peter’s in this regard; “It would be bad form.”

Wendy took command of the story.

“Hook has been serving in the Italian navy,” she said. “He is on shore leave and has decided to spend his holiday here. He has never been to England; it will explain why he is unfamiliar with our customs. Father, don’t you have a cousin in Italy?”

“In Florence, a second cousin. But I haven’t seen him in thirty years.”

“Behold: his son. Raised in Italy but taught perfect English by his father. Do you speak Italian?” she demanded of the pirate.

“Of course. That villain Cecco wouldn’t use anything else. Though I cannot claim any familiarity with Florence.”

“You may borrow our encyclopedia for the purpose.”

“And if someone discovers that this is not my cousin’s son?”

“We will announce that we have been taken in by a fraud and a scoundrel, and eject him, and that’s the end of it. Do you hear that, Captain? If you give yourself away, you’re out!”

“That does not change _my_ terms,” came the reply. “You will see your brothers again when I know the location of a certain cocky, ageless boy.”

“It is the perfect cover. No one will suspect any deception; none of our acquaintance knows a syllable of Italian!” Mr. Darling enthused.

“What is your cousin’s surname, Father?”

To Hook’s delight: “Rogers.”

“Captain Rogers.” They all resented the pleasure this provided their guest.

“We shall have to bring Liza into it,” said Mrs. Darling with decision.

Yes, it is the same Liza still working for the Darlings; the passage of time has increased her age but not her inches. The tales the Darling children told of their time in Neverland gave her a taste for such adventures as those. Longing produced a love for the stories, and it is entirely possible that Liza remembers the events of ten years ago better than do the participants themselves. Needless to say, she has been waiting half her life for such a time as this.

“Liza is trustworthy. We will have to dismiss the other staff, for the time being,” said Mrs. Darling with a small sigh; it had been something of a chore to engage the others, and they were so well-trained and amiable that she knew she would never find adequate replacements when the situation finally came to its close. It was not every day one engaged a maid who knew how to remove candlewax from shirtsleeves and didn’t insist on whistling while she did it.

Liza was summoned and the situation was explained in scant terms with the promise of a more thorough account in the morning. She set up a cot for Hook, shooting him black looks all the while.

Much like its occupant, Wendy’s bedroom was tidy and charming, a young woman’s sanctum, stuffed with books and dried flowers and dress patterns and infant plants in pots that would eventually be transferred into the soil outside. Its most appealing feature was the deep seat below the broad window that looked out of the side of the house (No. 14 was situated at the end of a break in the row), possession of which had been the cause of a period of bitter strife between the usually amicable siblings, and upon which the maids had discovered a sleeping Wendy on more than one morning.

Now this her sanctuary was to suffer not only invasion but prolonged residence by the man who was the closest (Wendy considered) she had ever come to encountering a demon in human form. She felt heartsick and nauseous and wished for the forty-eighth time that evening that one or all of her brothers were present.

She donned her nightgown and wrapper, shielded from all eyes by the dressing screen. Mrs. Darling brushed out her daughter’s copper-honey hair. Her touch was comforting.

“I wish the boys were here,” said Wendy. Now she was referring to the lost boys. Unlike the deception constructed for society’s benefit in regard to John and Michael, the others really were gone from town—for a rugby conference.

“We will send a telegram in the morning. For now all we can do is get some rest. I shall sleep in the bed with Wendy,” Mrs. Darling told Liza.

It was at this moment that Mr. Darling realized his wife and daughter would be sharing a bedchamber with the most villainous pirate to sail the seas of this world or any other. He announced with decision that he would be sleeping in the room as well; he had no intention of leaving his womenfolk unprotected. It is only what we ought to expect from him, but was still something of a noble gesture, as no one knew better than he just how ineffective he would prove in a fight if Hook did decide to try anything unpleasant.

Wendy gave her father a smile of such relief and affection (she had been making bets with herself about at what point he would make this statement and had won) that it rolled all the way back around and served to make some of the pressure around her heart decrease.

Liza was at a loss. She had made up the cot for Hook, and they only had the one real bed, unless someone wanted to drag in a mattress from one of the other rooms. This notion did not appeal to her. She felt Hook should sleep on the floor.

The problem was solved by Wendy, who elected to make a bed of the window-seat. She met Hook’s suspicious gaze defiantly and waited in silence for Liza to finish plumping pillows and for her mother to remove half the blankets the maid had piled on the long seat-cushion.

When finally the lights were doused and night swept into the bedroom, her eyes seemed unable to close. Exactly where he lay was easy to locate: it was the blackest spot in the room. Wendy watched this patch of darkness as if by her unwavering concentration she could prevent any malicious action on his part while they slept. The unspoken threat of what would happen if her window were to open and release or admit any persons without his knowledge rang in her ears as though shouted.

Both Darling seniors were determined to stay awake throughout the night in watch over their daughter; consequently, they were the first to drift off. If Hook slept, Wendy did not know. Nothing from the patch of darkness stirred or sounded. Wendy did not sleep at all; and while the presence of he who lay mere yards from her would have kept her fretful and wakeful for a few hours, it was in fact her father who must be given credit for keeping her wide awake through the entirety of the night.

George Darling’s nocturnal snores were a thing of legend in his household. There was no pattern to them; it was impossible to imagine them into a melodic rhythm that might soothe one into slumber. They were explosive and deceptive; brief silences tricked a suffering audience into false hope that they had ceased for a time and sleep might be entered into before they resumed—only to come crashing through seconds later.

Wendy lay on her back and stared at the ceiling. She counted lines in the wallpaper. She counted tassels on a blanket. She counted snores. She gave up hope around the time that the clock in the upper hall donged five o’clock, when the sky outside her window turned a shade lighter and birds began chirping. Still she lay there, too tired to move, and her thoughts drifted: wondering how John and Michael were faring, and what was for breakfast, and if a book she particularly wanted had come in at the library, and where Peter was. She amused herself by telling herself familiar stories and making up incoherent, illogical ones that seemed lovely to her exhausted mind.

Memories _would_ creep in, too, sliding in under cover of the dreams and sending chills up her spine. She remembered blue eyes glittering and gloating, and the screams of death above whilst she and the boys listened to the slaughter from below, and the plunging sea that reached up to snatch her, and the shine of his hook dulled by blood. Victory had blotted out most of the horror and fear of those final days—but it was all false. Hook had survived and was no worse for wear. And so when dawn finally broke she rose far more afraid than when she lay down.


	4. Gnomes Who are Mostly Tailors

On Saturday morning George Darling was waiting at the telegraph office window when the operator arrived. As it had been composed by his daughter, his message was brief and urgent: asking the lost boys if they knew the whereabouts of Peter Pan, and telling them that John and Michael were kidnapped and to come home immediately. As Mr. Darling’s composure was placid—he was an Englishman, after all, and never a habitually early riser—the operator, who would have otherwise been inclined to alarm, thought he was speaking in code.

Breakfast was doomed to be awkward. Let us take a brief look at the tableau. Here is George Darling, well-rested and comforted by the knowledge that so far he has done all that is possible to remedy the circumstances, confident that once his adopted sons return all will be well again. Here is Hook, blearily glaring at him across the breakfast board. Here is Mrs. Darling, pretending that her boys are safely oversleeping upstairs, politely asking how their guest had slept.

“Like the devil!”

She is inclined to attribute it to an unfamiliar bed. After the quality Wendy’s rest she does not enquire: the answer is plain on the girl’s face. Miss Darling’s appearance is haggard; worry has left dark circles under her eyes. She speaks mostly in monosyllables.

As luncheon and supper follow in much the same manner as breakfast, we shall not linger over those scenes; they were painful enough for the players, and we need not punish ourselves by living through it too. Let us skip to the day’s more significant events.

First a word or two must be said about No. 14. Yes, it is indeed the same house that served as a launching pad in the last adventure. It is a comfortable, cheerful home, with all the corners rounded by Mrs. Darling, whose presence can make the room glow, and by her daughter, who makes it sing. When all residents are within, they set it brimming with so much mirth that it leaks out the windows and through the eaves in the attic. Perhaps it looks different since our last visit, but that may be credited to new curtains and rugs and the exotic air of three human servants. Mr. Darling and his neighbors grew in occupational stature at about the same pace, so the neighborhood is rather fashionable now, without necessitating any jealousy amongst the locals. Between them is a feeling of communal progress; they look forward to a few years hence, when they expect to all have housekeepers and motorcars.

In the meantime the Darlings find themselves obliged to take a few steps back from the hope of housekeeper to the humble status of a single servant. Unable to offer explanations to Sarah and Eloise, Mrs. Darling must ask them to take an extended holiday with every hope they will return quite soon—an order which Sarah receives with relief, as she has a sickly mother living on the coast, and Eloise with offense, as she thinks the Darlings mean to avoid her summer menu. Neither have the slightest suspicion of Hook’s presence. They do know Liza is staying on, and with a little spite they put it down to longevity. It must be admitted Liza does a poor job of not gloating as she watches them go, despite the heavy workload that will now be hers alone; she scents adventure, and feels a strong sense of family ties. The Darlings forget their promise to explain Hook’s presence to her, and she never admits to a soul that she is forced to learn the full story later from the market rumormongers—expertly gathered by sticking her nose in the air and refusing to answer any of the illuminating questions posed.

Once the servants are dealt with, the family must resolve the issue of church the next morning. To keep his terms, they will have to bring Hook with them. The idea is unappealing: to start, they will have to introduce him, a notion that agrees with no one; they have their cover story but no one wants especially to have to use it. However, if he stays home Wendy will have to stay, too. Leaving her alone with him is out of the question. To top it off, John and Michael are missing. To have the whole family absent will look queer. Thus, either to go or stay requires many explanations they are not prepared to give.

“We have all taken ill,” said Wendy decidedly.

“We cannot all of us be ill every week-end.”

Wendy did not see why not.

Mrs. Darling was concerned about the spiritual implications of not attending church and lying about the reason to boot. “We might sit in the back, and slip out when the final hymn is sung,” she suggested.

“In that case we might not bother to go at all,” said Mr. Darling, whose concern was less for the notice of God—he felt heaven would understand—and more for the notice of the far-from omniscient congregation, who were inclined to gossip. Part of him hoped the family’s absence might be overlooked; a more pained part would have wept to have confirmation that such a thing was possible.

Eventually it was decided that they should attend, on the argument that sooner or later they would have to venture out in public with their guest and church was as worthy a place as any to begin: perhaps it would be good for him.

There arose the question of attire. Hook’s scarlet Stewart-era overcoat was ostentatious and conspicuous, which bothered him little and the Darlings greatly; however, with some gentle explanation on the part of Mrs. Darling and impatient demands on the part of her daughter, he consented to adopting the style of the times. Mr. Darling thought his suits might serve the purpose; Hook, casting an eye over his host’s form—admittedly grown rather rounded in the years since contact with Neverland was last made—declared he would have a tailor or nothing; Mr. Darling (rather stiffly) gave him the card of his man. Of course Wendy must accompany Hook to the shop, as henceforth her life’s sole purpose was to be monitored; so must Mrs. Darling accompany them, as chaperone; so must Mr. Darling accompany them, having no intention of leaving the women of his house alone in company with a kidnapping pirate scoundrel; so must Hook be confounded if he would tramp about London trailed by such a gaggle of goslings, and he bitterly consented to pillage John’s wardrobe for anything it would not be considered a trial to wear.

Hook and John were of a like height, which was a mercy (Liza said) as it circumvented the nuisance of wrists drowning in sleeves or trouser-legs flapping around ankles; but Hook was broader across the shoulders, which gave them difficulty in another direction. He filled out each shirt, converting with hard muscle what John's slimness never could: the student’s suit into garments of a man-about-town.

He rejected most of what was available. “This wants washing” was but one of the comments directed at Liza, who received them in high dudgeon and threatened after each one to give notice. She would not have left for the world, of course—at last, an adventure of her own!—but it kept the Missus and Miss busy soothing her, and a girl did like to feel appreciated.

Hook demanded red garments above all else, of which John possessed few. A necktie and vest were unearthed; threats were made to visit the tailor after all; by all means, do so—should they make ready to leave?; no, but they might make ready to meet their maker, which was more warning than his dogs were given when they dared speak to him in such a tone. Liza remembered a bottle of red dye downstairs that would do nicely to transform the white shirts, and the bloodbath was averted. After a few hours of this, four day ensembles and a set of evening wear were deemed worthy to adorn the pirate’s frame.

One task completed, Liza brought out the scissors and straight razor. Hook eyed these instruments warily.

“My father were a barber,” the girl informed him, which explained nothing. She held the pair of scissors at ready.

“What are you going to do with that?” he said with a quietness of voice that made the others present clutch at each other’s hands, with the exception of Liza herself, who flung the idiom _When in Rome_ at him and took advantage of his momentary confusion to lob off the thick curl that hung directly at the front of his head.

He was very still.

Wendy reflected that she had never known Liza was so brave. To stand her ground in the face of the ice storm brewing in the pirate’s eyes, the only man Barbeque had ever feared!—but then, Liza probably did not know who Barbeque was, or have an suspicion of whose gaze she met without a trace of fear. Poor Liza: she is in the midst of her adventure and knows it not—more the pity, as this is its pinnacle.

Finally he said: “Leave me enough to tie back at the neck.”

“I never will. You’ll look like a child’s dolly.”

They argued so fiercely over every inch that the others grew bored with listening. Mr. Darling fetched his newspaper. The ladies fell to chatting about a newly premiered stage play. Reverend Dougal’s sister had seen it and not been impressed; they thought this review a good sign that they should be inclined in its favor.

Liza lathered the shaving soap to much protest.

“Miss Wendy en’t partial to moustaches (except on her good father) and she being the one as will have to look at you the most, it’s to her opinion I’ll be deferring.”

Hook glanced at the inattentive Darling women and sank into silence.

When she was done, he looked at his reflection and drooped. He felt Liza might have left him enough to still feel like a man.

The maid was pleased with her work. She felt she had unearthed a gold mine beneath layers of dark hair: he was a handsome fellow and no mistake, as (she knew) scoundrels were wont to be. He certainly did not—as at one point he had remarked to her—resemble a lamb shorn for slaughter. Rather, he looked like a gentleman now, she informed him, and ordered him to finish dressing (he had removed John’s coat) and present himself to the family. He gave her a black look and stepped around the screen they had set up for his wardrobe changes.

At the sight of him Wendy forgot what she was saying.

In her childhood Hook had always been no more and no less than a member of that ageless group of humans known as Grown-ups. Seeing him now, her matured mind was obliged to re-categorize him as a peer. It was not that this afternoon signified the first time she understood him to be an adult; certainly not. She had always seen him in that light. Rather, for the first time she realized how fully a member of that group she had herself become.

He had shed heavy years with his curls and moustache. Now she realized that he was younger than she would have supposed, had she ever given the matter any thought. This puzzled her. He did not appear to have aged since she had been in Neverland, but Peter was the only person alive whom time bypassed.

The long black curls were never seen again. When all was finished, Liza swept them unceremoniously into the wastebin. From there they were carted away to the dust heaps and discovered by a sparrow who, astounded at his good fortune, lined his nest with them and shrieked daily of nature’s favor and made himself insufferable to his neighbors.

Next to go was the hook, over which Wendy and the pirate fought a pitched battle. Hook informed her that he would cut her throat before surrendering it to her.

Undaunted, she announced, “You shall wear a false hand instead.”

Hook howled.

That reminded her. “There are stipulations if you truly mean to reside here. You may _not_ commit murder. I know your temper; I’ve seen you kill a man for annoying you by sneezing. Your brand of violence is as little tolerated in this world as it is a part of the day’s dealings in Neverland. Nor may you torture anyone, or kidnap anyone else, or—or inflict _any_ mental or physical harm upon any living being you encounter!”

Dark sarcasm wished she would be more specific.

“By 'mental' I primarily refer to inspiring fear, _Captain_.”

“I cannot help it if my name precedes me.”

“You are in England now.”

He sneered. “I remember the rules.” He might as well have said that nothing mandated he would follow them.

“If you don’t like the terms, you shall stay indoors.”

It was this statement that rendered Wendy conqueror. Hook rarely got to take a holiday, and very much wanted to see the London sights. He was, however, permitted to keep the hook on his person, which he did at all times, and often snuck it back onto his arm when Wendy wasn’t looking.

As they passed out of the room Miss Darling might be overheard quietly telling her mother that after some consideration, she thought she had better not tell Cecil more about the matter than was revealed to anybody else.


	5. When Pirates and Lost Boys Meet

With many bitter feelings did Wendy Darling behold her father on Sunday morning. Her night had passed without improvement from the one before. Any sleep into which she managed to drift was broken by his snores. Cotton-headed, had she been left to her own devices she would have forgotten half her toilette and a few necessary parts of her wardrobe—but that is what mothers are for, after all.

The Darlings regretted their decision to attend church the moment they entered the sanctuary. Wendy felt curious eyes on the back of her neck throughout the entire service. Hook, for his part, appeared unfazed; he played the part assigned him, bowing his head during prayers and the benediction, drawing up from rote childhood motions the tone and attitude required. His voice was good, and the pleasure he took in bawling out the hymns was evident to all. Wendy wished he would not sing so loudly; he was conspicuous enough already, despite his obedient demeanor.

(He is a sight to behold, is he not?—the devil’s minion, snuck into the House of the Lord. One might imagine Mr. Hyde masquerading as Dr. Jekyll, rattling off creeds with an enthusiasm that his companions cannot help feeling is blasphemous.)

The Gloria Patri began and Wendy’s heartbeat accelerated. In a moment the service would end and the congregants would be upon them. She reviewed the main points of the Grand Deception they had concocted, knowing that her parents were doing the same, knowing that the complacently smiling Hook was not.

In the end, their mental labor was all for nothing.

The Finlay clan in the pew in front of them turned around. The senior Finlays greeted the senior Darlings; the Finlay offspring turned their inquisitive eyes to Wendy and the stranger. There were three of them, and they matched the Darling offspring in age.

“Miss Finlay, allow me to introduce my—” Wendy panicked. What was he to her? She could not remember the familial connection between the descendants of cousins—“Captain Rogers. He is—”

“A pirate,” finished Miss Finlay eagerly. “Of course.”

For Wendy had forgotten that all children dream of the Neverland, and while no dream is an exact copy of another, even the steady forgetting that accompanies adulthood cannot wipe away those lifelong lingering images, hazy around the details but with everlasting impression, like fingerprints across the mind; hence the reason anyone who has ever been a child knows one of those blackhearted villains of the open sea when they see one, dress as he may.

This mild exposure of the truth was perhaps one of the most fortunate things that could have happened in the whole scheme of things, as will be observed in a little while, when Mr. and Mrs. Darling might have been called to account for the lengthy absence of their children; as it was, no explanations were required. In this they rather benefited without deserving it, the Finlays having saved them from what might have been a valuable lesson about deceit; only hindsight has perfect vision, after all. On that Sunday all they knew was that the plan had failed; everyone knew too much already; they must escape the interrogations before the inevitable disaster of full truth struck. They fled to suffer through the long afternoon at home.

“Well, they’ve seen him,” said Mr. Darling, as they hurried from the church. “No turning back now.”

*

After a quiet luncheon, Mrs. Darling went upstairs to rest, as was her habit. Mr. Darling, who liked an afternoon constitutional, remembered he had a daughter to protect. He settled in to his favorite chair with a newspaper and immediately fell into a doze. The other two retreated into the library; or, rather, Wendy chose the library and Hook followed.

As per usual, the windows were opened to admit the breeze, which tumbled in carting birdsong on its back. Sunshine warmed blocks of the rug. Bright patches of color swayed in the garden beyond and the busy hum of passing worker bees punctuated the quiet of the room. Hook sat back and cut a cigar. Blue smoke drifted up in lazy spirals and floated out the window.

Across the room, Wendy laid out a game of solitaire, wholly unaware of her proximity to the scene of Friday’s crime. She played steadily, hands always moving, but if we were to peek over her should we should find that she won perhaps one game in ten. Black on red, on black, red on black—each hand was a blur, her movements automatic, carelessly slapping down anything that matched, one eye fixed on the doorway. Hand after hand she played, laying out cards, gathering them together, blind to the suits before her.

She shuffled the cards again and Hook finally made a sound of impatience. He suggested she shift her attention to a book, if she thought herself up to the restraint of turning pages no more than once every twenty seconds.

Mr. Darling entered and his daughter jumped to her feet, knocking over the card table.

“Are they here?”

Her father looked surprised. “No. How could they be? If they’ve even attended to it, they can hardly be expected before tomorrow morning.”

Wendy made a restless movement.

Mr. Darling had come to fetch his _Atlas of the World_. There was trouble on the continent, he told them, and he wanted to know where Serbia was located. Hook puffed in reply; Wendy stared out the window.

The afternoon passed.

*

A little after dark there was a commotion at the front of the house. Liza opened the door to a crowd of men.

Anyone who has seen an avalanche in motion may draw comparisons between that and what happened next. They exploded into the entrance hall, flinging off jackets and hats and filling the space with their luggage, crowding the hall and stairwell with loud talk and jabbing elbows and shoes and shoving and laughter and upbraiding and impatience.

Above all, the demand: “Where is Wendy?”

They had come straight from the station (had anyone paid the hansom?) after two long days of hard travel (you didn’t expect us until tomorrow, did you, Liza?) and had not even stopped at home, and was there anything to eat?

The lost boys did not regularly reside at No. 14. Perhaps the first thing that needs clarifying is their group moniker, and the simplest explanation is that the term ‘lost boys’ had stuck, as they responded to it when called so by the Darlings, and anytime the distinction needed to be made between the Neverland gang and the Darling progeny, ‘Boys’ was the term used for the former and ‘Three’ for the latter. The Boys were wholeheartedly family, without doubt; but sometimes it was helpful to have a sorting system.

One thing Peter Pan had taught them was how to adapt to their surroundings. Eventually they were just as comfortable on the streets of London as they had been on the paths through the island trees, and though they attended school and church and family supper with a display of civility that would have impressed the most critical society matron, there was still something feral about them that was the despair and delight of the two Darling women. They never lost their love for small hideaways and territory patrols, and at any given time they had two or three hideouts scattered across the city, never permanent, never discovered. Wendy knew these addresses, of course, but Mr. and Mrs. Darling had to send messages through their three resident children if they wanted to contact any of the other six.

There were beds for the boys in the main house, of course. The entire attic had been converted into a dormitory years before. They preferred, however, to make a home of the world outside, comfortable in the knowledge that a door on Gardiner Row was always open to them whenever they chose to return.

Now they entered the library at Wendy’s request. They kissed her cheek affectionately as they wandered in and with varying degrees of interest observed the unknown gentleman waiting beyond. They assumed he was the detective hired to find John and Michael.

Nibs stuck out his hand. “Hullo, I’m Ned Peterson.”

Slightly followed suit. “Sullivan Peterson, at your service.”

“Thomas Peterson. Pleasure is mine.” Thus Tootles.

Hook regarded them silently. He did not uncross his arms and after Nibs’ unreciprocated gesture the others did not bother to extend theirs to him. Wendy heard the pirate mutter under his breath about the ‘most pathetic display of loyalty he had seen in ten years.’

“David and Daniel Peterson. How d’you do. How d’you do.”

Curly announced, “Christopher Peterson. Evening to you,” and ended the queue.

When all had arranged themselves in a line before the fireplace, they turned expectant faces to Wendy.

Hook showed her a hair-raising smile. “Is it my turn?”

He revealed himself with rather more pomp than was his wont. Wendy thought he might have been more modest, but then it was not every day one came back from the dead and was able to lord it over his enemies; and heaven knew she had witnessed worse from Peter.

“Oh?” they said cautiously. They stared at him as might a collective of owls.

Hook, who had expected a fight and spent the latter part of the afternoon sharpening his sword, hook, knives, and any other deadly accoutrements about his person in anticipation of it, grew irritated.

The truth was that Neverland had become a vague thing to them. They had been raised first by Peter, who lived one foot in the future and who considered the past, once lived, a thing hardly worth considering, and then by Wendy, whose lead they had learned to follow in all things and who had clearly installed Hook there as her companion. They were now questioning the accuracy of their memories.

“Hook,” said Tootles, surprised. “Thought you were dead.”

Nibs looked suspicious. “Why do you look so young?”

“The haircut,” Hook drawled.

“Bollocks.”

Slightly whacked him on the shoulder. “Mind your tongue. There’s a lady present.”

“Aw, Sally ain’t nothing but a sister.”

Wendy had been rendered immune to their swearing by a decade’s close companionship with it, but this flagrant abuse of the language she could not allow to pass.

“ _Isn’t_ , Nibs,” she chided.

“You isn’t nothing but a sister, Wendy.” He knew he was her favorite.

The room chortled; grown men all.

Wendy said abruptly, “In the last month, have any of you seen Peter?”

They had not.

“Has anyone spoken to Peter?” No.

“Has anyone had even a thought of Peter?” No.

“Where is Pan?” This from Hook. They referred him to Neverland.

Wendy explained the state of affairs. If she was inclined to embellish the tragic aspect of the situation we must excuse her; in her view Hook’s threat was as good as a promise, and she must get them to do something before promise became reality.

Oh, they raged! They would make him hand over John and Michael. Who doubted they could do it? They were grown now, and he was just one man.

Reading their thoughts from where he reclined, Hook smiled. Never has there existed a more sinister, evil smile than that of Captain James Hook. A rush of tardy memories accompanied the sight of it, beginning with Peter having always been the one to fight Hook, circling around a number of choice battles, and ending with the oath they swore to Peter that he and only he be the one to fight the pirate master. Such loyalty is untarnished by distance or time. It was unanimous: they would leave Hook to Pan.

Everyone retired shortly thereafter: the three Darlings and their pirate shadow to Wendy’s bedroom, Liza to a truckle bed beside the glowing woodstove, and the Boys to the attic. Of this crowd, only Liza and her master and mistress reached blissful oblivion. Hook lay still and silent, a black patch of ready malevolence; Wendy wrapped her pillow around her head to block out her father’s snores. The Boys were in conference.

They placed their candles on the floor of the attic in the center of their circle. The flames flickered across their faces like the campfires of long ago. They knew they had not retained that feral spark for nothing. Their brothers were captured and their sister was shackled to the enemy. At whose feet did this mission lay? Theirs, undoubtedly! It was their duty and their right to save their family. They must rescue John and Michael; they must free Wendy; they must eliminate Hook.

Such an undertaking is no small thing. We could not judge harshly if their hearts shook a little at their errand—but they were the lost boys, Peter’s heartless band of hunters, raised in Neverland between a knife’s edge and crocodile’s tooth. They looked at each other and smiled.


End file.
